The Dark Lady's Stone

By Christie Maurer

In this well-researched medieval fantasy, when the High Priest to the god of Fire and Light commands destruction of the Dark Lady of Death’s Standing Stone and purification of Her cave on the shores of a wilderness lake in the far north, the young troubadour, Sir Loriano of Vayne, does not anticipate that his proposed epic poem of the battle between Light and Dark will place him on a sword’s edge between rival gods. Only a shaman storyteller knows the lost road to the Stone and Loriano is the only one he trusts. Accustomed to entertain for his countess's pleasure, Loriano must guide the mission from the dying forests of the far north, across an open tundra, to the lake where he learns that Lady Death is not as he was taught. He risks death by fire to keep the priests from igniting a catastrophe for both gods and men and bring justice to the ghosts of ancient warriors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christie Maurer
• Release date: Sep 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301841318

Christie Maurer

With a BA in Creative Writing from Goddard College, Christie Maurer lives in the Monterey Bay region. She is a member of Broad Universe for women Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror writers, and was the newsletter editor for Monterey Bay Chapter of Romance Writers of America for several years. Her novel first chapter, Masquerade, won first prize in the 2004 Win-Win Conference Persie contest. She has published two alternative fairytales, “A Maiden's Heart” and "Gormlo the Green" in mytholog.com, and suspense story, “Heritage,” in the fall 2012 issue of White Cat Magazine. “The Whitewood Kitarra,” introducing her troubadour hero, Loriano, and the Karaskan court, first appeared in the Spring 2013 issue of American Athenaeum’s Sword and Saga Press and is now available as a stand-alone.

Book preview

The Dark Lady's Stone

by Christie Maurer

Second Smashwords Edition

Copyright Registered 2013 Christie Elisabeth Maurer

Cover: Oliver Hill designer and Radu Razvan photographer

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, incidents, events, and dialogue portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's hard work.

DEDICATION

To Carolyn Woolston, a.k.a. Lynna Banning

for years of support, which went beyond mentoring—

from line edits of endless drafts,

to no-holds-barred brainstorming,

a shoulder to cry on,

handholding when I was ready to quit,

encouraging me to attend workshops,

and extracting me from the jaws of a hungry hotel bed,

exchanging research books, medieval CDs,

discussing early music and instruments, and much more.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

1 The Messenger

2 Solar in Summer

3 Pleasure Days

4 River Folk

5 Superstition

6 Love

7 Death

8 Two Ladies

9 Fangestorn

10 Storyteller

11 Clash of Faith

12 The Forest

13 Edroc

14 Farewell

15 Lost Road

16 Tundra

17 Lake Illia

18 The Cave

19 Purification

20 Disaster

21 Funeral Song

22 Dead Spirits

23 Frater Lowan’s Vision

24 Sacred Fire

25 Trial

26 Confrontation

27 Loriano’s Song

28 Brocar’s Triumph

29 Sacerdote Danestor

30 Reckoning

31 Watermeet

32 Homecoming

Epilogue - Valmes

Acknowledgments

About the Author

PROLOGUE

War of the Gods

Zofra, Mother of Life and of Wisdom, Lady of Waters, shook with fury. Her true High Priestess was dead, and by treachery, her tender body seared in Volcar's sacrificial fires, her unborn babe lost. What justice had Volcar, God of Justice, showed to Her beloved? Zofra wept. None remained to channel Her wisdom to Her people, Her Wise Chosen wandered in disarray, and Her worshipers turned to foreign gods, even the War God Broga, whose altars now conjoined Volcar's.

Zofra's mountain heaved and rocks rained down. Her earthsnakes raced to Volcar's mountain, writhing beneath the land, toppling cities and villages, uprooting trees and crops. Volcar rumbled, belching gouts of fire and smoke, hurling lightning bolts down upon the helpless land, burning forests and fields and burying buildings from temples and palaces to huts. Zofra answered with storm clouds, whirlwinds and floods to drown His fires. Darkness overwhelmed Light. Ice froze flame.

Remnants of a helpless populace cowered in cellars and caves while rocks thundered down and flood and flame fought over the world. Prayers were useless. Which god would hear? Which god grow wroth?

Eventually the world fell silent. Volcar-Broga had won. No more could She whose name had turned from Life to Death engulf the world in Her shadows. Gradually a vestige of human life crept out across the world. Under His Light, they began to rebuild.

Fragments of the old wisdom survived the cataclysm. Lest knowledge be forgotten, a handful of priestly scholars sifted the memories of old men for accounts of past glories and combed myths for seeds of spiritual truth. Carefully the priests collected bits of scattered papiera and pieced them together. Some were mere inventories and accounts. Others recorded history. Then treasure troves of sacred writings were uncovered in the cellars of temples—rules of conduct and judgments by Broga-Volcar.

And the Books of Wisdom came together, a blessing from Broga-Volcar and a guide for a broken people.

Brocar's Conquest

(From The Books of Wisdom)

Flames formed the manes and tails of Brocar's four fire-stallions and flames leaped from their hooves. His hair was like the sun, His noble features fair, and His robes light itself. The ironbound stone wheels of His golden chariot dug deep into the earth, crushing dark and foul things, as He drove the Dark Lady and Her fiends before Him. They fled to the darkness of Her cave to hide their twisted evil from His light.

The chittering, howling fiends poured in through the cave's entrance like a river of black tar. The Dark Lady turned upon the Bright God, warped and diseased, loathsome with foul pustules. Hissing and spitting, sharp teeth bared, Her features contorted and She snarled, You may defeat Me now, O Brocar of Light and Fire, but I rule the dark places, and I shall claim all men in the end. When I retake My power, I shall defeat You. And on that day, every torment You visit upon Me shall return to You threefold.

Silence, you foul creature, excrescence on My fair world. Never can you conquer Me, for I am Life and Strength, and Light and Fire. The god hurled a lightning bolt toward her.

She cringed back into Her cave, clawed grey hands raised, but She could not prevail against Him.

Laughing, Brocar hurled bolt upon bolt after Her, driving Her down into darkness. Then He aimed His bolts to bring down the rocks above the cave to seal the entrance. You will not escape this time, O Mother of Foulness and Death. And He summoned a golden dragon to prevent Her from leaving Her prison again.

1 THE MESSENGER

Castle Diamont—Day 2 of Summerbirth

It was the midday meal, and from his place at the end of the dais, Sir Loriano of Vayne idly glanced across the great hall of Castle Diamont. The trestle tables were unusually crowded. Droughts were worsening to the south, and Count Reynal sheltered a goodly number of refugees.

Loriano's gaze sharpened. Strangers often entered the hall during a meal, but the arrogant way this one tossed back his dusty cloak caught his attention. The white and gold surcoat of the High Priest's messenger could mean trouble. The man flicked muck from a boot, raised his chin, and strutted past the chattering courtiers and retainers toward the count’s family on the dais. The way horse sweat befouled the man’s white hose Loriano had to grin.

At the opposite end of the dais, Sacerdote Danestor, his orange silk robe bulging over his ample belly, was prying a bit of pheasant from his teeth. The messenger bent a knee, spread his left fingers, and circled his palm over his chest. I bring Brocar’s blessings from the High Priest, Your Worship.

The Sacerdote set down his silver pick and returned the sacred sign. Brocar’s blessings be upon His Holiness, and upon you.

With a slight nod to the count’s pretty young sweetling, the man bowed to the large, middle-aged man in the high-backed chair. My Lord Count Reynal.

Be welcome to the Karaskan court. As usual, the count sounded affable, but his eyes sharpened and he ran a hand over his iron-grey beard.

The messenger turned to the count’s right, and his eyes widened admiringly. My Lady Countess, Princess Elisse. He bowed again.

She granted the man a slow smile like a summer dawn. At thirty-six, the countess was still the most beautiful woman in the kingdom of Elakand. Her figure was slender, her kohl-rimmed grey eyes sparkled with wit, her rouged cheeks were petal-smooth, and her elaborate confection of braids was a rich gold.

The messenger turned to Loriano, seated beside her, with a puzzled frown.

Elisse placed a hand on his arm, either in affection, possession, or caution. This is Sir Loriano of Vayne, my troubadour.

Seeing the man’s face freeze, Loriano smiled a bit too broadly. Every troubadour in Elakand made love songs to Countess Elisse, yet last year she had chosen him, a twenty-three-year-old joglar, over five master poets. Some said it was for his blue eyes, but he cared for his domina beyond a poet’s conceit.

The messenger swallowed and produced a scroll bound with seals. I bring a proclamation from His Holiness High Priest Osgaron, to be read to the Karaskan people at the Festival of Light.

The entire court burst into laughter.

The messenger drew himself up, red-faced. My lords, His Holiness speaks for Brocar. His Word is not a matter for levity!

Count Reynal flapped his hand. Of course it is not! Calm yourself, my good fellow! His mouth twitched. Unfortunately, our festival ended two days ago. Surely you met our departing guests along the road?

The messenger muttered something unecclesiastical. As you must know, my Lord Count, ladies and noble lords, the drought is worsening. Rivers are low, and I was forced to abandon my boat, obtain a horse and travel over land. I got lost in your forests.

Sacerdote Danestor’s brow creased. How unfortunate—both for you and for Brocar’s worshipers in our province. We are most eager to read His Holiness’s proclamation. He extended a pudgy hand for the scroll. May I read it aloud, my Lord Count? He broke the seals.

By all means. Reynal gestured to the hall.

Courtiers and retainers leaned forward.

"To All Peoples of Karaska, from His Holiness Osgaron, High Priest of Brocar the Just, Supreme God of Light and Fire, Chariot God, Sower of Seed, and Defender of Elakand—

"Despite Our prayers and sacrifices, Brocar withholds rain, and drought stalks the land. Rivers dry to a trickle. Lakes become ponds. People and livestock starve.

"Since Brocar defeated the Dark Lady of Death in the War of the Gods, She has sought to regain power. Our Speakers of Light crushed Her cults in the southern provinces, but we failed to remain vigilant in the North. The Dark Lady, Tormentor of Souls, grows strong. There has been a resurgence of witchcraft, idol worship, and other foul practices, and Brocar is wroth with our apostasy.

Therefore, it is Our command that good Elakanden, high and low, search out and destroy the superstitions, signs, and symbols of the Dark Lady. Purify in Holy Fire the heretics and witches who hide among you in order to appease Brocar’s wrath and save our lands.

Murmurs and exclamations arose from the court.

Count Reynal set his cup firmly on the table. It seems we’ve got quite a task before us.

The messenger cleared his throat. There is also a personal communication from His Holiness to Your Worship. He handed Danestor a letter with the High Priest’s private seal stamped in gold wax.

The Sacerdote opened the missive. As he read, he paled. I must discuss this with Count Reynal, he told the messenger. One of the squires will show you to my residence to refresh yourself.

When the messenger was gone, Danestor turned to the count. "His Holiness writes—

"A heretical monument is rumored to exist in Karaska Province, namely, the Standing Stone and cave of the Dark Lady of Death. You are to investigate forthwith and, should you find the rumors are true, you personally shall proceed to this place and destroy Her Stone, all accouterments of Her power and remnants of Her worship, and purify the foul site with Brocar’s Holy Fire.

That this was not dealt with sooner shows grave negligence on the part of the Karaskan religious authority.

Negligence! Danestor’s jowls quivered. That I should be accused of negligence!

Loriano rolled his eyes. It was no secret that the Sacerdote cared more for his silk robes and his table than for Karaskan souls.

Reynal laughed shortly. Even children know that the Dark Lady’s Standing Stone lies on the shore of Lake Illia. Why else is it called ‘Lake of Death’? But as for its being a center of heresy... That is the most remote and inaccessible corner of north Karaska. Even snow cats and white bears avoid it.

Yet I am commanded to go there myself. Danestor’s plump fingers turned over his jeweled rings. And I must obey the High Priest? He made it a question.

Count Reynal gave him a hard stare. Karaska cannot afford to offend Brocar. We have water from snowmelt, but our forests are blighted and our white weasels and sable are dying with blood in their nostrils. Timber and furs are Karaska’s wealth, and we need divine favor.

Danestor’s mouth opened and closed. Well, if I am to go, I’ll need at least six priests, along with transport, supplies, and an armed escort, my Lord Count.

You may have servants, tents, wagons, and twenty men-at-arms. You should leave within a tenday if you’re to reach Lake Illia before the snows. The count drummed his fingers on the table. Actually, I may go myself. It’s time I visited western Karaska. I hear old Lord Fangestorn is ailing, and I will honor Brocar by adding the weight of my personal authority to your expedition.

Danestor relaxed. An excellent offer, my Lord Count.

Loriano’s heart skipped. I could make amends for Lady Althea’s death. He turned to Countess Elisse. May I go too? Rather than confess his reason before the house, he added, After a year in Karaska I’ve seen little of the province. To journey to a remote and forbidden place, to witness a world-transforming event...

Of course you may go, Loriano. Countess Elisse beamed. We must have a poet’s impressions. I shall go too.

Silence dropped like a shot goose.

Elisse, you will remain at Castle Diamont, Count Reynal snapped.

Sacerdote Danestor reared up. This is a sacred mission in Brocar’s name. It is not a summer dalliance in ladies’ bowers with love songs and tinkling kitarras.

Loriano closed his fist. I am worth more than that. I could prove it to Elisse and to the world. An idea blossomed. How shall your accomplishments be remembered, Your Worship? I will compose an epic poem.

I shall bring a chronicler, Danestor came back.

But who will read his record? The High Priest? A handful of cloistered monks? Loriano leaned forward, focused on the Sacerdote’s choleric countenance. "We know how King Solgar conquered the barbarian hordes from his bard’s epic. Our best account of the Holy Wars comes from a troubadour’s lai. Purification of the Dark Lady’s cave is as significant as either event, and my epic will spread news of your achievements from castle to cottage throughout Elakand."

The Sacerdote leaned back, toying with his silver-handled knife. You may have a point.

Count Reynal slapped the table. It would be to the credit of the Karaskan court.

Very well. Danestor set down his knife. But I want my own chronicler to provide a factual report free of high-flown metaphor and romantic sentiment.

A good poem conveys more truth than a mere narration, Loriano retorted.

The Sacerdote’s mouth opened but Count Reynal held up his hand. Enough! It is settled. Loriano will compose his epic and Sacerdote Danestor will bring his scribe.

Loriano exhaled.

Countess Elisse leaned forward. "I am eager to join your expedition, Your Worship. For twenty Holy Seasons, the Dark Lady’s long-nights have oppressed my spirits. She seized two babies from my arms. I want to witness Her as overwhelmed by Brocar’s Light as I am by Her Darkness."

Loriano alone applauded. You have great courage, my Lady Countess.

Her eyes met his and his heart leaped at the depths of her feeling. She and I, facing danger together, bringing the light of love and music into dark places...

And Reynal refused. Lake Illia is too dangerous for you and your ladies, Elisse.

"Is she going? Elisse nodded to the count’s sweetling. Will the soldiers and mule drivers be permitted camp followers? And what about laundresses? Do you intend to wash your own tunics and hose?"

The count flushed. They are low-class women, accustomed to adversity.

Elisse lifted her chin. There is more to me than you imagine, my Lord Count. I am not a glass vase displayed on a shelf to impress your guests. She glanced from Loriano to the Sacerdote. Tell us, Your Worship, will your party be in danger from the Dark Powers?

There will be little danger, aside from the discomforts of drafty tents and bad roads. Danestor nodded as if to convince himself. During the days of Light, Brocar’s strength will protect us from the forces of Darkness, even at Lake Illia.

The countess beamed. Then my ladies and I will have no difficulty in accompanying you.

Sacerdote Danestor and Count Reynal exchanged sour glances.

You will remain at Castle Diamont, Elisse, Reynal stated. That is my final word.

The countess stood. Come, ladies, join me in the solar—and you too, Loriano. We have plans to make.

2 SOLAR IN SUMMER

Castle Diamont—Days 2-4 of Summerbirth

Loriano paused at the entrance to Countess Elisse’s solar. The rush of the Wilderskill fifty feet below and the boatmen’s cries drifted through unshuttered windows on a warm breeze. Ponderous stone walls and lavender-strewn flagstone floors seemed to float in the airy light of Summerbirth. Ladies in blossom-colored linen and muslin—rose and cornflower, periwinkle and poppy—decorated the room like butterflies. Lady Frieda, newly widowed, Lady Cora, newly wed, and the pious Lady Norda turned over the contents of a carved chest. At the table, the two younger ladies, Mari and Tessa, whispered excitedly.

Countess Elisse stood by the far wall. Her yellow silk gown and pale veil radiated light against the somber browns, blues, and dark reds of the tapestry behind her. He blew her a kiss. My Lady, my Queen of Summer.

Her countenance brightened, warming his heart. Flirting with her ladies was a privilege, and Elisse smiled indulgently when Lady Mari ran over to him. Loriano, I have a new bracelet. With a jingle of silver trinkets, she thrust out her wrist.

He leaned forward to examine the tiny figures. Let me see—a pony and a flower and a Brocar’s Wheel. This close, her bosom drew his gaze like a lodestone. Who is your admirer?

She snatched her hand away. Keep your eyes to yourself or he will chastise you.

May I not even regard his jewel? If I knew his name, I’d vanquish him with a scathing lyric.

Lady Mari tossed her straw-colored curls and the others giggled.

Loriano, I can’t wait for our adventure! Tessa, new to court at the festival, danced over to him. An old-fashioned net snood like a back-country virgin’s disciplined her thick dark hair, lending her an air of seductive innocence. I’ve spent my whole life—

All of sixteen years, Loriano thought.

—trapped in a miserable drafty old manor. My brothers scarcely let me past the door. And now? A tenday after I come to court, I get to see the world! She spread her arms like a bird in flight and spun on her toes.

Loriano captured her gaze midflight and sent her a wink. You will help to make our journey agreeable. You’re pretty enough to inspire a love song.

She stopped. Her pink lips formed an O, and her ivory cheeks flushed a becoming rose.

I thought your love songs were all for our Lady Countess, Loriano. Lady Norda fingered the Brocar’s Wheel chained around her neck.

To blunt her edge, he agreed. They are, but a poet’s inspiration has many sources, human as well as divine.

The countess clapped her hands. Ladies, you haven’t finished with the chest. Loriano, you and I need to talk.

The ladies resumed their tasks.

Loriano crossed to Countess Elisse. So Reynal is letting you go after all?

She shook her head. No, he is adamant. However, if my ladies and I are packed, he will have to consent.

I pray that he does. Without you, so long a journey in Sacerdote Danestor’s company would be unbearable.

Loriano, I have to go. There’s more at stake than you and me, she whispered fiercely. You heard the proclamation. They plan to eradicate superstition, and that includes the old lore. I must save what I can of it.

Who would miss it? Loriano, too, spoke softly. Lady Norda and even Lady Frieda would question defiance of the High Priest.

The Karaskan people would. Elisse gazed at the afternoon light outside her windows. We could not survive the cold long-nights without Brocar’s fire and light, but winter’s darkness is as key to the Karaskan soul. The old tales tell truths not contained in the Books of Wisdom.

Loriano rubbed his crooked nose. Yet for a princess exiled from the royal court to take interest in servants’ fancies...?

After my second baby died, Reynal abandoned me, and I had to fight the Dark Lady’s temptation not to take my own life. Reynal finally allowed me troubadours and your master, Anton, was the first. He suggested that I write down the old tales and songs. In them I saw how simple folk with no power or authority can confront the worst adversity and survive. Reynal wants to visit Fangestorn, and all the stories say that the Old Men of the western forest know the deep lore.

Does the count not understand your concern? He loves Karaska and he cares deeply for his people.

She made a futile gesture. My Lord Count does not heed anything his frivolous Lady Countess has to say.

He underestimates you.

Elisse’s eyes glittered. Yes, and I will prove it to him.

Footsteps rang on the balcony, and everyone looked toward the door. Two white-robed priests entered the solar and stood aside for Sacerdote Danestor and Count Reynal to proceed.

My Lady Countess. Sir Loriano. Count Reynal bowed.

So this was a formal occasion. Loriano returned the bow.

The countess drew herself up like a spear. Is something wrong, Reynal?

The count glanced around the room. Sacerdote Danestor and I want to discuss a private matter with you—alone.

Elisse blinked. Surely, my ladies and Loriano—

Alone. He gestured sharply.

With a frown, she turned to the ladies. Go decide what you need for our journey. Lake Illia will be cold even in summer, and our baggage must go on pack mules. To Reynal, she added, Loriano stays.

Very well. Reynal nodded to him. You’ve got a better head on your shoulders than you pretend. He called after the departing ladies, Don’t bother to pack. Countess Elisse is not going anywhere.

She tightened her jaw.

When they were in private, Sacerdote Danestor cleared his throat. I have questioned the messenger about High Priest Osgaron’s missive and prayed for Brocar’s guidance. Too long have I let others perform my rightful tasks. I am called to a divine mission—to cleanse Karaska of a festering Darkness. I must stop anyone, high or low, who indulges in questionable practices—sets wards, possesses amulets and idols, utters spells and curses, or summons the Dark Powers.

Loriano frowned. Danestor would inflate some poor servant’s idle gesture into a soul-destroying heresy.

The Sacerdote’s mouth turned down. My Lady Countess, we—Count Reynal and I—understand that you secretly collect heretical lore. He shot a glance to the count.

Reynal was studying the tapestry behind the countess’s shoulder.

Elisse’s stare could have frozen the Wilderskill. "So you invade my privacy to accuse me?"

I would examine your writings. By order of the High Priest and in Brocar’s Name. Danestor circled his open left palm over his chest.

How dare you! Her voice struck like a steel blade.

Loriano inhaled. Elisse spoke with the authority of a Countess of Karaska and a princess of royal blood.

Count Reynal turned from the tapestry. No one believes you knowingly embrace heresy, Elisse, but as rulers of Karaska, you and I must be above suspicion. We must set an example—

An example of what, my Lord Count? Abject surrender to baseless calumny? That proclamation speaks of witches and heretics. I am no witch. If I had the power to cast spells, I could wither His Worship where he stands. She lifted her hand.

Danestor stepped back, his eyes huge, and made Brocar’s sign.

Elisse, if you dared...! Reynal raised his own palm.

But I lack such power. The countess smiled and turned her gesture into Brocar’s sign, palm out in a blessing. As for heresy, Your Worship sees me at morning prayers. I donate generously to your sanctuary and two orders of Handmaidens. You know how the Dark Lady torments me during the long-nights of the Holy Season.

Danestor hardened his jaw. Yet you seek Her out. You study dark matters.

I? Elisse’s nostrils quivered. I gather to myself elements of light and culture, beauty and joy—poets and musicians, books and tapestries. I seek to preserve culture for the Karaskan people—in all its forms.

I do not speak of those but of your other collection. Your dark lore. Danestor cocked his head. Are you truly so ignorant, my Lady Countess? A woman poorly taught in religion might not be cognizant of the dire power in secret—

Secret? Dark Powers? She laughed. I write down Karaskan cradle songs and nursery tales that you yourself doubtless enjoyed as a child.

Danestor inflated like an overripe orange. "Enjoyed? he shrilled, his cheeks scarlet. Enjoy dead horrors, ghosts and wraiths who possess the living? Frightful monsters and fanged fiends who devour the weak and torment the innocent? His pale eyes bulged and his jowls shook like a bulldog’s. Such tales expose pure souls, scarce out of infancy, to nightmare terrors—"

Your Worship! Reynal interrupted. "Calm yourself. I’ve never known a child harmed by nursery tales. Certainly not my sons and daughters."

Most children relish the scary stories, Loriano put in, and my nursemaid’s singing taught me love of music.

The Sacerdote looked him up and down. You know nothing of religion, Troubadour. Children ought to hear enlightening passages from the Books of Wisdom, learn sacred hymns—

Loriano inclined his head and stepped back. The small man in gaudy robes sounded serious.

Be an example to your people, my Lady Countess, Danestor exhorted. Eschew evil and base matters that imperil your soul and render you susceptible to the Dark Lady’s influence. Declare your repentance publicly, and purify those wicked writings in holy fire.

Elisse pressed a hand to her breast. Humiliate myself in front of the people?

Before the Sacerdote could answer, Reynal held up a hand. Your Worship, let me speak with my Lady Countess in private. He waved Danestor and his priests out the door.

When the three were alone, Reynal claimed Elisse’s high-backed chair. Loriano drew up another chair for the countess and a stool for himself.

Elisse, I don’t think you appreciate the position we are in, Reynal said. "Defiance of the Sacerdote is not in the interests of Karaska. Danestor was raised in High Priest Osgaron’s house and that messenger has been recalling his obligations. Blight and disease are signs of Brocar’s disfavor."

Reynal, you let him threaten me.

"It is not a matter of letting him. He has the authority to question any of us, even you, King Rollard’s sister. You may care nothing for your brother, but he is ailing, and Osgaron assumes increasing power. Already he’s replaced barons in Sidrak and Tymenal Provinces, and Karaska’s relations with the royal court have been—uneasy."

The countess raised her knuckles to her lips. That is not a good thing.

I’ve tried to support you despite your scandals, Elisse. I allow you your pastimes and your troubadours— He glanced at Loriano. But with your reputed contempt of sacred institutions—

Reynal, that was over twenty years ago! I was fifteen. And I’ve done penance since. Must I stand accused until I die?

The count’s gesture dismissed the matter. I’ve found no fault in you on that, and Brocar knows I’m in no position to lecture you on such matters. Unfortunately, Danestor has determined to act decisively, and he has a peculiar aversion to nursery tales. At least he is focused on your written collection. He’d not dare to purify you in holy fire, but what if he questions your servants? He may uncover enough to burn them.

No! He must not! Elisse’s eyes darkened. They have no ill intent, and they trusted their stories to me.

The countess was right. This was a serious matter. Loriano cleared his throat. If you ‘purify’ a few sheets of parchment, my Lady Countess, he’d have less reason to look further. Your servants will still remember the tales.

She looked at him speculatively then to Count Reynal. Those stories are as innocent and you know it. But if I agree to turn them over to the Sacerdote, you must agree to bring me to Lake Illia.

Elisse...

That is my price. Refuse, and you and Sacerdote Danestor will have to drag me to the Sanctuary for a public trial.

Reynal strode to the window and stared out across the river. His broad shoulders blocked the light. When he turned, he showed his teeth in a smile. You and your ladies may come as far as Fangestorn. After that, we shall see. In return, you will burn your offending writings. You will confess your guilt publicly and explain the need to avert Brocar’s wrath. Persuade our folk that there is real danger to their lives and to their souls.

Loriano’s brows lifted. The count wanted substantial concessions.

Elisse’s lips tightened. I will do exactly that—in return for your solemn oath to bring me all the way to Lake Illia. I will settle for nothing less.

Count Reynal nodded. You know it will be hard, but you have my oath, in Brocar’s name, that you may accompany us the entire way. He made the sacred sign. I’ll let Danestor know.

Tell him I will hand over my collection to him at midday tomorrow.

The count nodded and strode out the door.

Elisse rubbed her hands together. Loriano, thank Brocar I can trust you. Tonight I want you to help me copy over the stories and songs and see that there are no passages Danestor would call heresy.

Gladly—if I can find them. Danestor’s right. My religious interest is confined to performing at festivals.

Do your best. It galls me to comply, but if Sacerdote Danestor would destroy children’s stories, I wonder what lies at Lake Illia that High Priest Osgaron wants to annihilate. I intend to find out.

Loriano applauded softly. I hope that the result is worthy of your sacrifice, my Lady Countess. And that I can prove myself worthy of your trust.

∞

Loriano and Elisse sat at the table in the solar amid scattered parchments, taking advantage of the long daylight to copy the tales, changing a word here, an image there. Close to midnight, the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving a soft twilight. A yawning servant brought them food and drink, and while they refreshed themselves, they listened to the rush of the Wilderskill.

At least the Sacerdote is not after your troubadour works, Loriano said. Troubadours from all Elakand made pilgrimages to the Karaskan court to share songs and poems with Countess Elisse. She had even devised a musical notation for them. It’s good to know that if I die at Lake Illia, our poetry will not be forgotten.

Her brow wrinkled. Don’t speak of dying, Loriano. You sing like an angel, and your poems are like holy fire. I can share the things I love with you. The days we spend playing and singing together—

Are the greatest pleasure I’ve known. You are a beloved friend. Your kindness and generosity make me a better man. It was not just a courtier’s flattery. He spoke from his heart.

Her eyes warmed. It means much to me—your esteem.

It is I who aspire to yours.

You have it freely. She smiled mischievously and picked up her quill. We have little time.

The eastern sky was bright when she laid down her quill again. Loriano, what if Sacerdote Danestor is right?

About what?

About this lore. Copying it over, I realize how many monsters and demons it contains. What if I have been gathering darkness to my heart? During the winter Holy Nights, no matter how much I pray for Brocar’s light, the Dark Lady whispers how easy it would be to take my own life.

My Lady Countess, you must not! My first love, Lady Althea, did so, and I still dream of her soul in torment. I could not bear to lose you too.

That still weighs on you?

He nodded and touched the silken pouch with a lock of Althea’s hair beneath his shirt. He’d promised her to wear it always. When they’d been caught eloping, she’d hanged herself rather than wed another, and he’d become a troubadour to learn how to love. One reason I want to go to Lake Illia is to free her soul. I didn’t want to say so in front of the court.

Elisse touched his hand. As I wonder what happened to my two babies. Sometimes during the long-nights I seem to hear them crying.

Loriano grasped her fingers. During the Holy Nights he’d find her with kohl-stained tears trickling down her cheeks. He’d wipe them away with his finger and hold her in his arms to comfort her. Brocar help him, he’d wanted more. Putting the memories aside, he said lightly, I didn’t appreciate the infamous Karaskan winters until I experienced one. A whole tenday when the sun scarcely rises is unbearable, even with blazing candles and torches.

Yes, and if these—she gestured to the parchments—keep Brocar’s light from my heart, if I burn them, He might help me overcome that oppression.

Loriano grimaced. "I doubt the seasons will change because you burn a parchment or Sacerdote Danestor lights a fire inside a cave. People will live and die, freeze and swelter, eat and fornicate as they’ve always